A deadly pause. “Do we need to have another conversation about your attitude?”
My ribs throb in memory. “No,” I say quietly. “I’ll get it done.”
I’ll frame Christina Dawson.
Who runs an animal charity.
Hanging up, I close my eyes, guilt rippling through me.
It’s always the people with the softest hearts who pay first.
For a second, I consider throwing the drive away or deliberately making it so I get caught. It’s just…
What’s the point?
The family will just send someone else out to finish the job and Christina will be fucked anyway.
And it’s not like the Lyons will care if I go to jail or get hurt or disappear (so long as that’s permanently from this planet rather than me trying to escape so I can have a better life).
I’m disposable.
Only here to be used and then discarded when my usefulness is used up.
Part of me wants to allow that to happen, to just end this.
I’m so damned tired.
The rest of me…well, however stupid it is, I’m making plans to get out.
I don’t know how that will work yet—and maybe itwillend with a permanently-from-this-planet sort of resolution—but I haven’t completely given up.
Because maybe the tiny sliver of hope inside me—still soft and green andalive—is there for a reason.
Maybe Iwillfind a way out.
But first I have to not get dead doing this job.
I make it to my car without issue and take an extra-long way to the winery, parking in a mostly filled row that gives me good sight lines to the back of the large, stone-covered building that overlooks the vineyard’s rolling hills.
Rolling hills.
The bite of the memory is sharp, as is the guilt.
I shake my head and start up my car, having seen enough to form a plan, or the skeleton of one.
There will be no blood today. No fighting.
Just stealth and a quick in-and-out.
Why does that feel like…famous last words?
Shaking it off, I drive back through the winding roads, make a quick stop at a discount store for the necessary supplies, and then I’m securing my wig, buttoning up the bland, white collared shirt, the plain black polyester slacks. They’ll do the job, but between the wig and the pants I better not get too close to any open flames, otherwise I’ll be going up in a flash.
Since there are no acceptable shoes, I’m sticking with my boots, but I use a black marker to touch up the dings and scratches.
Not perfect.
Nothing about this is.
